


Suggestive in movement, sight and sound

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: But not really angsty, M/M, Mostly UST, Twincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:45:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3120644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a line. On one side, the righteous and good: their honored forebears, tireless sentinels against the destruction of Morgoth and his protegé. On the other, the wicked: betrayers, deceivers, Kinslayers—and kin-lovers. They would not cross the line, but sometimes they walked on it like a tightrope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Identical

**Author's Note:**

> I read a Elladan/Elrohir fic recently that was not my thing, but had an offhand mention of an idea I found intriguing: that they wouldn't touch each other in a certain way because it was 'going too far.' This is what came of that rolling around in my head.
> 
> (Title is from "Pandora" by Splashdown. The song seems very apropos for this fic.)

_Say what you will about Maeglin the Traitor_ , Elrohir thought, _but I am grateful for his mistakes_.

They had first heard his tale as elflings in Glorfindel’s lessons. When it came to the matter of Idril—Maeglin’s cousin, and their own ancestor—Elrohir’s eyes had met Elladan’s. _Pay attention, I think this is important._ (Their shared thoughts weren’t exactly in words, but that was the gist.) But it hadn’t been necessary—Elladan was listening just as hard, and they both knew when the lesson was done what it meant.

There was a line. On one side, the righteous and good: their honored forebears, tireless sentinels against the destruction wrought by Morgoth and his protegé. On the other, the wicked: betrayers, deceivers, Kinslayers—and kin-lovers; servants of the dark and villains of the history books. Goodness was no guarantee of a good end, but wickedness was an assurance of a bad one.

Unlike poor Maeglin, they had begun life on the right side of the line, raised as they were by champions of the light; but even so, it seemed they had been born very close to it, and would have to mind their steps to keep from straying over.

It was lucky that they learned then, when romance was a dim adult notion and the desires of the flesh were not even within their scope of knowledge. Their coming of age had been difficult enough without stumbling unknowing into the condemnation of the Valar. Those years had been marked by moodiness, sulking, picking fights with one another; but they both knew it could have been so much worse.

As adults, Elrohir and his brother were in perfect accord. They moved like dancers, synchronous in everything; people understood that. What they did not understand was how literal the comparison was—how _choreographed_ their every action was.

Which was not to say their synchronicity was manufactured. They fell into it naturally, as easily as breathing; but the only time they left it entirely to instinct was when they fought side-by-side. At any other time, sleeping or waking, in company or alone, they were being... _careful_. Measured.

There was a line, and they must keep on this side of it.

~

Elrohir lay awake, aching.

It was not lost on him that Elladan—friendly, jovial, but _absolutely-untouchable-by-almost-everyone-else_ Elladan—only slept soundly when he was curled close at Elrohir’s back, hand outstretched between them, palm resting lightly against his spine. They didn’t always sleep side-by-side, especially when they’d drawn too close to the line and things were dangerous between them; sometimes Elladan slept in his own bed. Those were the times when he thrashed in his sleep and rose too early, unrested.

Tonight he slept peacefully in his accustomed place. He had shifted a little in slumber, so only his fingertips were still in contact; Elrohir’s skin burned beneath the touch, regardless. At the moment, he was skirting close to the line and he knew it. Maybe not _too_ close, though, if Elladan stayed asleep.

He unfastened his sleep trousers and took himself in hand, keeping as still and quiet as he could. His strokes were slow and measured, less from any particular wish to draw things out than in an attempt not to disturb his twin. Just for the moment, he let himself relax a little, indulging in the thoughts he typically kept submerged.

To be honest, the things he imagined were almost laughably tame. They had long since agreed that thoughts didn’t count—or rather, if they did, they had both been damned since birth anyway. But being so careful became a habit, and besides, he _did_ crave the simple things of his imaginings—sometimes so acutely it felt like dying of hunger, or thirst.

He didn’t dream of his brother’s fingers wrapped around his cock. No, instead he imagined lying on his back, touching himself just the way he was now; but with Elladan’s mouth on his, deep desperate kisses stealing his breath. Elladan’s fingertips stroking the point of his ear. Elladan gathering him up into his arms, holding him close until he gasped and came, murmuring against his temple all the things they never gave voice to.

Despite his best efforts, Elladan had come awake at some point—the fingertips against his back flattened into a whole palm again, and Elladan shifted closer. They didn’t touch, except at that one point, but Elrohir was fiercely aware of his brother’s proximity. He could have stopped then, awful though it would have been; but then Elladan kissed the point of his shoulder, and the window for discretion had passed. They would not cross the line, but sometimes they walked on it like a tightrope.

Elrohir shuddered, his breath catching in his throat, as Elladan kissed inwards along the ridge of his shoulder. The kisses were not inherently unchaste; he did not linger too long, or brush along the skin, only pressing closed lips briefly and firmly to one point before lifting away and moving on. He could have come up behind Elrohir in any hallway of their father’s house, grabbed him by the upper arms, and pressed such a kiss to his shoulder without raising a single eyebrow. He probably had done at one time or another.

But this was something different altogether. With no shirt to separate lips from skin; with Elladan’s kisses moving inward from the safety of Elrohir’s shoulder towards the _very dangerous territory_ of his neck; with Elrohir’s trousers pushed down over his hips and his cock in hand, the difference was as vast as that between sparring with a wooden sword and marching into battle with it.

Elladan veered off course at the last moment, pressing a last long kiss to the knob of Elrohir’s spine where neck and shoulders met, another relatively safe spot. Elrohir was relieved; he was close now, and he hadn’t wanted Elladan to _stop_ , but he certainly couldn’t have continued on his previous path. But then an image came to him, unbidden—he couldn’t tell if it it was from his own mind or from Elladan’s. Vividly, he imagined Elladan pushing his hair to one side, leaning in, _biting down on the nape of his neck_.

For one intense, fraught moment, they both thought he was actually going to do it. That alone was enough to send Elrohir over the edge, though Elladan flung himself away at the last second, sitting up at the edge of the bed facing away from his twin as he fought to get his breath back.

After a few moments he stood and crossed the dark room. Elrohir cleaned himself up, burning with guilt, expecting to hear the door at any moment. He lay down again, castigating himself for his selfishness, for ruining Elladan’s rest and his own. But the sound of the door never came; and just as he was slipping into sleep, there came again the warm press of a palm against his back.


	2. Distinct

It was easiest in the company of others. They could be affectionate without real fear of doing anything unforgivable; it was easy enough to remember they were watched. Elrohir could put an arm over his brother’s shoulders without longing to twine both around his neck instead. Elladan could fix Elrohir’s braids without yearning to loose them all and bury his face against the dark tresses. Or at least, in company, these desires were remote, like wishing for anything you couldn’t have—if the moon was beyond your reach, it hardly mattered that you wanted to hold it in your hand.

They had many things, too, that kept them busy and apart. Elrohir loved horses and hounds and hawks and all manner of other beasts, though he was not much for the hunt. He was well known to the masters of the stables, kennels, and mews—and of course to their inhabitants. Elladan was friendly enough to the beasts but more interested in the hunt; he often rode out with friends and came home with a prize fit for their father’s table.

They had both been trained in the management of the house, and each had their duties, but Elladan had taken more naturally to it. He spent a great deal of time with Glorfindel, the seneschal, and with their mother, learning how everything was run. (When Celebrían sailed, he had taken over the lion’s share of the chatelaine’s responsibilities.) They had both studied the history of their people growing up, but Elrohir had taken more naturally to it. He spent a great deal of time with their father and Erestor, discussing, dissecting, and interpreting texts that he might someday have their skill with lore.

They cultivated their separate interests as much as possible, because they liked to define themselves by their differences; the surest way to get the cold shoulder from Elrohir, or a rude retort from Elladan, was to mistake one for the other. Elrohir dressed in peacock colors, deep blues or emerald greens, and Elladan in autumn shades, rust and moss and gold. Elrohir kept his hair intricately braided and usually swept up into a warrior’s topknot; Elladan left his mostly loose, or braided simply. The only time they arrayed themselves identically was when they went to war—what could terrify an enemy more than that fair, fell vision of death in duplicate?

As children, they had taken it as a given that people would call them by one another’s names, or worse still, “whichever one you are.” It seemed an inevitable misfortune of their birth. As adults, they rejected the notion fiercely; it became, somehow, of dire importance that they establish themselves as individual people, one without the other. They were not two parts of one whole, or whatever nonsense the bards dreamed up.

They were brothers, warriors, sometime scholars; inextricably linked, but not one. Never one.

~

Elladan lay awake, planning.

Elrohir was asleep at his side, his closed eyes a holdover from their mortal heritage. He was stretched out on his stomach, cheek pillowed on his arm—not his usual manner of sleeping. It had been a long, wearying (though successful) day of hunting orcs; he’d passed out partway through recounting a story Arwen had told him before they’d left. Elladan had smiled fondly (too fondly) when he’d trailed off into sleep, tucking back the hair that threatened to end up at any moment in Elrohir’s slightly open mouth, and thought: _We can’t continue like this._

He gazed up at the stars, wondering if Elbereth had any sympathy for their plight. He’d been taught to love the lady as all elves did, so he couldn’t help thinking that she might have felt a little tenderness towards them, though of course she had never answered any of his pleas for guidance. He could not wait any longer, though, not now when they continued to grow so much less agile at avoiding the danger every moment.

Elrohir, he knew, saw it as a line that could not be stepped over; but for him it was more like a neverending series of traps laid on a path they had no choice but to walk. Once, they had been able to evade the snares deftly—if not easily, then at least automatically, and without too much concentration spared. But it seemed the traps grew more complicated now, their escapes more narrow; and they were both so very tired. If they faltered even once, they would never recover; but still sometimes he thought how sweet it would be to stumble.

Separation, of course, would be the simplest answer. But that was no true solution, because there was no way forward for one of them without the other. In his metaphor, it would have been like leaving the path for the impassible woods beyond—no traps, but no way to go on. He would still have done it, of course, if he thought it would clear Elrohir’s path. But they were in it together; there was no way of sacrificing himself that did not also sacrifice his brother.

They had talked before of taking lovers, even made some overtures to that effect. It had certainly pleased their father to see them flirting with the young folk of Imladris, after years of showing little interest in romance. They even enjoyed it, to a point; the chase was great fun, after all. It was moving _beyond_ the chase that was the challenge.

Elladan was easygoing in his tastes; he liked men and women both, Eldar and Edain, and while he preferred dark to fair he could be persuaded in the latter case. It was easy enough to find someone who could set his blood to sizzling and go after them. But then, inevitably, it came to touch; and that was the difficulty.

It wasn’t that he disliked touch on the whole. Their family was a demonstrative one, which he didn’t mind, and that circle included others—Glorfindel, Erestor, their mother’s handmaiden Hebeth. But being touched by anyone else was like a cat having its fur stroked the wrong way. (Elrohir, combing and braiding his hair to soothe him after one disastrous encounter, laughed and said he’d probably hissed just like a cat too.)

Elrohir was unlike him in that regard—he was less outgoing, but entirely comfortable with touch, casual or otherwise. His stumbling block was the attraction, or rather, the lack: he could acknowledge many of their acquaintances objectively fair, but few of them moved him. Even with those who could make his heart pound, once things moved behind closed doors, he had some difficulty...maintaining interest, as it were. He’d done his level best, but after more than a few humiliating attempts he’d informed Elladan—in no uncertain words and with ill grace—that this particular plan would have to be scrapped.

Elladan considered the problem for a time, and then thought perhaps the difficulty was that they strayed too far from their own natures. However separate they might be in their interests, they tackled most major challenges as a pair. What had they expected, coming at this one divided? It might be a little unorthodox, but Elladan was fairly sure there were plenty of people to whom bedding a matched set would appeal. And while it was probably a transgression of some degree, it seemed a significantly lesser sin than the one they were constantly verging on.

It would, perhaps, address their previous issues. He didn’t imagine they would either one struggle with desire, with some pretty young thing pressed between them; and as for the touching, well—it could be focused on Elrohir. Elladan felt less prickly in his brother’s presence, anyway, so perhaps he wouldn’t even mind as much being under someone else’s hands.

He went to sleep feeling optimistic; so much so that he dared to sleep with one arm draped over Elrohir.

In the morning they packed up their camp and prepared to ride on. Elladan considered how to broach the subject. They usually agreed about what did and did not cross Elrohir’s line, but he wasn’t entirely sure about this.

At last, Elrohir got tired of waiting. “Well? I can tell you have some plan. Are you going to share it with me? Or don’t you think I’ll like it?”

Elladan smiled at him. “You might not. Be open-minded, though, _gwanur_.”

“You’re too cheerful for it to be anything that inconveniences _you_ , so that’s encouraging at least.” Elrohir eyed him measuringly. “You aren’t intending to marry me off to someone, are you?”

Elladan laughed, saddling his horse. “Nothing so permanent!”

“Well, you’ve already tried to find me a lover, and look how that turned out.”

“Yes, but I’ve never tried to find _us_ a lover.” Elrohir quirked an eyebrow at him—a skill inherited from their father—and he went on, encouraged by the lack of protest. “We hunt better in a pack, don’t you think? Figuratively speaking, anyway.”

Elrohir was never _completely_ unreadable to his brother, but just at the moment, it was a little difficult to tell whether he would take to the idea. Elladan could feel interest and irritation both radiating from him, but they did not seem to be in competition. At last, Elrohir said, “I think we would both feel more at ease, but I’m still not sure it would solve my underlying issue.”

Elladan knew he might be going too far even before he opened his mouth, but he could not quite help himself. Laying a hand on Elrohir’s shoulder, he leaned in and murmured, “Do you really think it will be a problem, with me in the room?”

“ _Elladan_ ,” Elrohir hissed, sounding scandalized, pushing him away. It had to be noted, however, that there was a smile tucked beneath his reprimand; and while he put an arm’s length between them with the shove, his hand still rested on Elladan’s arm.

They looked away from another for a moment, both grinning at the ground.

Elrohir was the first to compose himself. “I suppose, in this scenario you imagine, you will do more watching than touching?”

“Ideally.”

He examined Elladan with interest now. “It won’t bother you? Watching someone else touch me?”

Elladan found it suddenly hard to catch his breath, a hot flush racing up his skin, his mouth dry and his heart pounding. He had thought about it, of course, working out his plan, but he hadn’t— _thought_ about it. The image was almost too much to contemplate.

Elrohir laughed at his reaction, surprised but delighted. “Oh, brother,” he said quietly, “I had no idea that was one of your—”

“ _Hush_ , Ro,” he barked, regaining his tongue. “I think I’d better—”

“Go refill our waterskins,” Elrohir suggested, grinning as he tossed them over. “Take your time. And I will grudgingly admit, while it takes us very close to the line, I like your plan.”

Elladan went smiling to the river, though it took him quite some time to cool down.


	3. Convergent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man I did not mean to abandon this for a whole year. I just got steamrolled by the modern!AU, and those twins are both similar to, and very different from, these two--making them hard to write at the same time.
> 
> But hey, two new chapters! (Take two, they're small) Still no threesomes yet. Alas.

They found it was not so simple as making a resolution.

At first, it seemed some great change had been wrought—as if simply discussing the solution meant the problem was solved. They were easier with one another than they had been in a long time. By habit, when they worked on a task together, they moved gracefully around one another without ever touching—now that was all put aside. To an outside observer they would have seemed clumsier, more like any other pair of people who occasionally collide or get in one another’s way or brush shoulders in passing; but it was only a relaxing of their careful avoidance.

Their hunt was not nearly over for the season. In the first few years after Celebrían’s departure, they had been grim and dogged when waging their war against the tireless orcs. They still were, sometimes; but the grief was lighter than it had been, and on this trip in particular they pursued their quarry with a sort of savage glee.

Usually, their errantry was not a worse trial than any other time. They were alone together more often, of course; but they rode hard and fought harder, and they had enough mortal blood in them to feel it. They caught their sleep whenever they stopped moving, trading off watches through the nights (Elladan always took first, Elrohir always second), with no thought or energy for anything else.

But usually, they were as careful in the wilds as they were at home. Usually, they were not stirred up with thoughts of anything but vengeance. There was nothing _usual_ about this hunt, and though they may have found a solution, it seemed things would get worse before they got better.

 _Careful_ , they would say to one another, and be careless instead. It became their code-word; it did not mean _stop_ so much as _I am dangerous right now, know what you’re getting into._

The problem was, of course, that they were always dangerous now.

The orcs had reason to cower, that season.

~

Elladan had finished currying and brushing his horse when Elrohir came upon him from behind, wrapping arms around him, burying his face against his hair. “Careful,” Elladan murmured automatically, even as he leaned into the embrace.

“This _is_ careful,” Elrohir said. Elladan understood his meaning; this was Elrohir restraining himself, a safer embrace than the one he truly wanted.

Knowing that, of course, made it less safe.

Elladan seized one of Elrohir’s hands, twisting it to get a better look at his forearm. They’d been hunting in rocky terrain; Elrohir had chased some of the fleeing orcs down a scree slope and lost his footing, scraping off a layer of skin as he went down. He’d landed well and dispatched his prey with no trouble, and made light of the incident later, but Elladan could see now that the wounds needed cleaning, shallow though they were. The scraped skin was an angry red where it was not grey with rock dust, and the blood that welled up was beginning to stick to his shredded sleeve. At least his maille had protected him above the elbow.

Elrohir tried to pull away, but Elladan held fast. “You should have asked me to clean that. Stay put, I’ll get my pack.” They had discovered (by unpleasant experience) that while they did have some elven resistance to infection, they were not entirely immune. Besides, leaving dust—maybe gravel, even—in an open wound could hardly be good for anyone.

“It’s minor,” Elrohir said, annoyed, and did not stay put. Instead he began laying a fire. They had cleared out the creatures nearby, and had no great worry of being ambushed; besides, the snares Elladan had laid when they came into the area had borne fruit in the form of two fat rabbits, and it had been a few days since they’d eaten anything hot.

“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble keeping still long enough for me to clean it out.” Elladan let him get the fire going, but after that he was insistent, perching on a flat rock and drawing Elrohir up to sit at his feet with the arm draped across his knees.

He wet a cloth from his waterskin, soaking loose the remnants of Elrohir’s sleeve and then wiping away the blood, both dried and fresh. Elrohir sighed, giving in with ill grace, and leaned his head against Elladan’s knee as he waited.

Next was the dust and— _ouch_ , yes, small shards of gravel, which Elladan dug out as gently as possible. Elrohir’s agitation was acute, which seemed strange. It was unpleasant, of course, but Elladan had seen him suffer a thousand worse pains without flinching. He’d borne stitches with more composure than this.

Once the scrapes were cleaned, Elladan soaked a fresh cloth in a tincture of sage, sponging it on generously. Again, Elrohir fidgeted like a child at the sting, nearly pulling out of his grip at one point— “ _Careful._ ”

Elladan laughed despite himself. They’d been using that word in a very different fashion lately. He opened his mouth to tease Elrohir about it, but something stopped him.

Something about the set of Elrohir’s shoulders, or—the angle of his head where it tilted against Elladan’s knee. Or perhaps it was his breathing, quick and shallow, but not labored as with pain. Elrohir lifted his head to see why Elladan’s hands had stilled, and his eyes were dark.

Elladan realized, then.

“You _like_ the pain?” he asked, incredulous, and Elrohir growled.

“It isn’t like that.” But a flush crept up his neck and darkened his ears—it was certainly like _something_. “It’s just—when you touch me like that, with the—” he gestured at Elladan’s hands, which were still cradling his arm as gently as if they held a wild bird— “the tenderness alongside the sting, it...confuses my senses, a little.”

It took an immense effort of will for Elladan not to use that knowledge then and there— _careful_ , indeed. He thought about stretching out a hand, caressing Elrohir’s cheek, or stroking the pad of his thumb along the shell of Elrohir’s ear while he dabbed on the tincture. Or more wicked things; pulling him up to sit across his knees, kissing the vulnerable column of his throat, pressing the cloth against his arm a little harder than necessary or maybe tilting the bottle to drip the tincture directly onto the wound. It wouldn’t harm him any, but _oh_ , it would sting—pleasure and pain.

No. He reigned himself in, made his touch impersonal, businesslike. Elrohir relaxed a little, and the moment eased past. Soon enough the arm was wrapped, the ruined shirt exchanged for a fresh one (they traveled light but not entirely without luxuries), and Elrohir returned to the fire. The talk grew light as they each skinned a rabbit, and set them up to cook, but Elladan’s thoughts were heavy.

Was this because of the decision they’d made? They’d managed to hold it together this long, but ever since their conversation he could think of nothing else, as if feeding that hunger increased it rather than sating it. Had he, in trying to save them, put them instead on a path to ruin? Or maybe this was inevitable, and his plan was barely in time. How was he to know? He wished he could see Elrohir’s line, the clear divide between virtuous struggle and villainous weakness. Maybe then it would not be so difficult to see which choices kept them just shy of it and which, ultimately, crossed over.

Maybe then it would be easier to see if there were _any_ choices that did not eventually damn them both.


	4. Divergent

Their honor would not allow them to cut the hunt short, of course. They might be heading for a grey area in their personal lives, trading down from a greater sin to a lesser one; but as for their campaign, they had sworn an oath to avenge their mother, and they valued that above any matters of desire or convenience. Nothing less than their all would suffice.

Their fighting began to take on a different cast. Before, they had moved in perfect synchronicity, mirror images of one another. Now they worked just as seamlessly, just as harmoniously; but they ceased to _match_. Elrohir moved lithe and light, finding weak spots and striking at them with exactly the force necessary to bring an enemy down. He dodged like a dancer, blocked blows aimed for Elladan as easily and impatiently as swatting away gnats, dispatched orcs with speed and glorious, graceful efficiency.

Elladan settled into his stance, immovable as the mountains, wielding his sword with precision and power. The force of the impact when his blade met flesh or armor sent the orcs reeling; his strikes were punishing, tireless, wearing down even the strongest creatures until they fell bloodied at his feet.

They had always been skilled fighters, but this— _this_ was new. Less uncanny than the old way, perhaps, but ten times as deadly. It was brutal and lovely, terrible and breathtaking. They tore through any orc foolish enough to stand against them, and cut down any foolish enough to flee.

When their work was done each day, they could hardly look at one another. Not because they didn’t like what the change had done to the other—rather that they _did_ , far too much. No amount of _careful_ could hold back what was building between them now. Better not to look and be tempted.

They had started something, like kicking loose stones down a slope, which was gaining momentum at an alarming rate. Something would have to give, or soon they would both be crushed beneath it. How could anyone hold back a rock slide, once it had begun?

~

Elrohir longed for his books.

The benefit of their hunt was usually the exhaustion it brought. But these last weeks he’d been filled with tense, crackling energy—instead of draining him, the hunt only stirred his blood. It left him agitated and restless, and that was a perilous place to be.

At home Elrohir could lose himself in the lore for hours, days on end, and come back dreaming and distracted even when he closed the volume that held his attention. For Elladan, physical pursuits could purge his frustration, leave him calm and comfortably weary—at peace. But Elrohir needed the distance granted by words on a page, needed to be more aware of his thoughts and less aware of his body, a need that was not served by swimming or running or fighting. He had never really missed his books on the hunt before, beyond idly wishing he could look up certain plants in his father’s herbal or identify the markings of a peculiar bird.

Now he felt their lack acutely, no matter how much of a burden they would have been to carry along. If he could only have mired himself in the lives of people long past—the stories of those virtuous ancestors—he might have found his own difficulty a little less urgent.

Elladan was not helping. He was in constant, agitated motion, even when they were both bone-weary. He would not (or could not) hold still, and Elrohir's eye was drawn to him again and again. Elrohir bit down on his irritation, knowing it was undeserved, but he was deeply tempted to slip something calming into Elladan's waterskin even so.

It was a relief when the weather turned. The damp chill cleared Elrohir's head a little, not to mention it signaled the impending end of their hunting season. The orcs would draw deep into their warrens for the winter, and trying to dig them out was a fool's pursuit. When the first snow came—only a little sprinkling at twilight, but snow nonetheless—Elrohir felt he could finally begin to relax.

They had had little real sport that day. They had cleared a good section of the countryside already, but there was still evidence of a sizeable group in the caves near where they camped. Elladan had thought they might be able to make one last purge before moving on, but it seemed the orcs here had shut in early. It didn't bode well for next year—if the beasts could afford to go deep before the snows came down, it meant they were well-fed and well-stocked. They'd be hard to root out come spring, but there was little to be done for it now.

Elladan, of course, was restless. Not as much as he had been; more like the expected restlessness of any soldier who'd been spoiling for a fight he hadn't gotten. He nudged Elrohir with the tip of his boot. "Come spar with me. I'll never sleep if I don't wear myself out a bit."

"You're not meant to sleep, you have first watch." Elrohir grabbed his ankle without looking up from the map unrolled across his knees, trying to unbalance him, but Elladan managed to keep his feet.

“You know what I mean.” He dropped down beside Elrohir, taking the charcoal stick from him and leaning across him to mark the map. “There, done. Now put it away and spar with me.” He was still very much in Elrohir’s space; suddenly the cold was not enough.

“Careful,” Elrohir said, softly, even as he lifted a hand towards Elladan’s cheek.

“That’s what I’m trying to be,” Elladan murmured back, apologetic. Then he jumped up again, breaking the spell, and took Elrohir’s half-extended hand to haul him to his feet. “Come on, humor me. If nothing else, it will warm us up a bit.”

Elrohir continued to demur. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Are you tired?” Elladan eyed him critically.

“Not particularly.”

“Well, then, there you are. I need to warm up before the long, cold first watch, and you need to tire yourself out.”

Elrohir sighed and drew his sword. He could tell he would not dissuade Elladan by words, but maybe a brief bout would be enough to satisfy him.

"That's the spirit," Elladan said cheerfully, and fell upon him with no further warning. 

At first, it was the easy, familiar dance they always fell into. They had trained against one another since the first time they'd been permitted to aim a practice sword at another person, not to mention the way they could read one another, making a feint essentially impossible. Neither was really trying to best the other; it was old habit, rote exercise.

But somewhere along the way, things shifted. They moved into their new stances, testing one another; Elrohir using his speed, Elladan brute strength and endurance. They were better matched this way, unlikely as it seemed. This was a real challenge, where one or the other might gain ground at any moment, instead of their usual comfortable stalemate.

Elladan, perhaps, was soothed by the exercise. Elrohir was not. He felt perilously close to losing control, controlled though his fighting style was. The thread snapped at last when Elladan made to knock him off his feet with a sweeping blow.

Elrohir, instead of blocking, stepped inside his brother's reach. If he were facing an enemy, he would have put a blade through its neck and moved on to the next. In a way, the violence he enacted instead was not so different, incapacitating his brother just as surely as the wound would have; he threw an arm roughly around Elladan's neck, jerking their mouths together, kissing him with more anger than tenderness.

Then he pushed away, turning back to their camp, heavy with guilt. “I told you to be careful,” he said roughly over his shoulder, busying himself laying out their bedrolls.

Elladan offered no defense. Elrohir tried not to notice the way his fingertips traced his lips, as if something there were missing. 


	5. Auspicious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sons of Imladris had returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god it's been two years I'm so sorry
> 
> I've always been meaning to get back to these boys. The truth is, when I wrote [O truant Muse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7446250), I was just intending it to be a one-off joke, but that joke OC turned out to be such a good partner for them that it made my original plans for this story pretty redundant. It took a long, long time to figure out a new direction, but here it is.
> 
> I hope you like it--enjoy two new chapters as an apology! And a final chapter coming soon.

The sons of Imladris had returned.

Those that saw them riding in, grim pillars against the brightness of the snow, might have said they looked as fell and fearsome as they had the very first time they’d ridden out on their errand of revenge. They did not look at one another, only straight ahead, though each unconsciously mirrored the other in carriage and bearing.

In the confines of their father’s house, they were barely seen apart, even as they seemed eager to resume their usual roles. They could be found back-to-back in the library, Elrohir transcribing histories while Elladan tallied accounts; or in the kennel-yard running the more promising yearling pups, Elrohir spoiling them with treats while Elladan trained them for the hunt; or in the Hall of Fire in the evenings, Elrohir sometimes reciting and sometimes listening, Elladan more intense than usual in his determination to befriend every traveler wintering in the Last Homely House.

If Elrond were ever inclined to ask about their hunts, he might have inquired whether something went amiss on this year’s venture, but he knew well enough not to pry; they dealt with their grief over Celebrían in their own ways, and since neither had come home with wounds needing treatment, he left it alone.

All the same, when both of his sons began paying court to various young men and women in the city, it did nothing to dispel his suspicion that they’d had some sort of near-death experience while they were away.

~

“No, the green.” Elrohir appeared behind him in the glass, easing the robe off his shoulders, and Elladan weighed the syllables of _careful_ on his tongue without speaking them.

“I thought you liked me in the gold,” he said instead.

“I like you in everything.” Elrohir held up a fall of green velvet, helping him shrug into it. “The gold won’t stop anyone in their tracks, though. If you want the attention of that poet—”

“No, we’ve given up on the poet. He kept trying to put his arm around me.” Elladan made a face, and Elrohir wrapped an arm around his waist, laughing.

“Eru forbid!”

Elladan only fought it a little, for the principle of the thing. It was a better alternative to leaning back into the embrace, which was what he truly wanted—but he’d certainly have to speak the warning then. “I think I have a promising lead, though. That lovely redhead from the tumbling troupe—you know the one I mean?”

Elrohir’s hands lingered, one at his waist and the other at his shoulder, stroking the velvet idly as if its pleasant texture was the only reason to stay. “I don’t recall a redhead?”

Elladan had to answer the question, of course, for politeness’ sake, which was why he couldn’t say _careful_ right away. The only reason, he assured himself. “How can you miss her? She watches you like she wants to devour you.”

Elrohir frowned faintly at him in the mirror—Elladan tried not to notice how close they were in the reflection. “That’s...not going to work.”

“No?” He watched Elrohir’s reflection rest his chin on mirror-Elladan’s shoulder, and the subsequent jump of his own throat as he swallowed.

“I assumed you would have figured that out.” Elrohir quirked an eyebrow at him. “Surely you remember that I don’t favor women.”

“You don’t favor anybody,” he murmured, distracted.

“You know that isn’t true,” Elrohir said, just as softly. Elladan glanced up to realize Elrohir was no longer meeting his gaze in the mirror, but rather looking at him directly, his face turned in close to the side of Elladan’s own.

He was suddenly dangerous, as dangerous as Elrohir had been when last they’d sparred. He opened his mouth to raise the alarm, but Elrohir must have already known; he let go, stepping back.

Elladan took several slow breaths. Elrohir gave him space, moving about the room to fold and store the gold over-robe and put the contents of Elladan’s jewel-case back in order. When he felt a little calmer, Elladan lifted his head and said, “All right. Not the redhead, and not the poet. We’ll keep looking.”

“There are plenty of folk in the city,” Elrohir agreed. “Now come sit and let me braid you.”

“Too informal?” Elladan said, glancing at himself critically in the mirror, and hoped he sounded genuinely concerned about the state of his hair.

“And too hard. You need to look less like a warrior and more like a lord’s son.”

Elladan took a seat. “More flies with honey than vinegar?” he said, mostly to distract himself as Elrohir began releasing his hair from its current style, holding out a hand automatically to take the tie when Elrohir clicked distractedly at him.

“And more admirers with velvet than with steel. However handsome the steel might be.” Elrohir worked efficiently, no less tonight than any other time; but tonight his hands were a kind of gentle that had Elladan’s heart in his throat however routine the act.

Elladan closed his eyes, drawing shallow, careful breaths. “Shall I critique your wardrobe next?”

 _Yes, tell me what you like me in best_. Elrohir swallowed the reply before it left his lips, but Elladan heard it regardless. “If you have suggestions, certainly.” He began plaiting a section just above Elladan’s ear, fingertips brushing the point occasionally as he worked, and it took an iron will for Elladan to hold himself still.

“I—” Thinking too much about what Elrohir looked finest in was a very poor idea at the moment. “No, you’re perfect. I was only teasing.” He cast about for something else to focus on, landing ungracefully on another poor choice. “Are you angry with me? About—when we sparred?”

Elrohir’s hands did not falter, though there was a brief startled silence. “Angry? No. I was frustrated with you then, but I’m not holding a grudge, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Even though I tempted you after—”

“Pin,” said Elrohir, and he handed one back automatically without breaking his train of thought.

“—you’d already told me to be careful?”

Elrohir pinned up the braid he’d been working on, then started a matching one on the other side; Elladan tensed the muscles in his shoulders to keep himself from shivering. There was a thoughtful silence, the kind that meant Elrohir was searching for the right words.

At last, he said, “Are _you_ angry with me right now?” There was a smile in his voice; he knew the answer, of course. “Pin.”

Elladan passed another hairpin back and swallowed hard, his voice coming out slightly hoarse. “That’s different. I didn’t tell you to be careful.”

Elrohir’s fingers moved again, this time gently combing the hair upward and off his neck, brushing his nape. “Are you going to?” He sounded less certain of that answer.

Elladan, stretched tight as an overwound harp string, somehow managed to keep his voice level. “I need my hair done, don’t I?”

“Hm,” Elrohir said softly, sounding pleased and something else that Elladan didn’t like to put a name to.

_Maybe we could—_

_Maybe if we only—_

They both began a thought, choked it off, drew a breath in unison.

_No._

_No._

Elrohir went on braiding; Elladan sat tense and close-eyed beneath his hands, and neither one of them would look _careful_ in the eye.


	6. Disastrous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Yule festivities in Imladris were always a high point; precisely the sort of firelit, snow-dusted, sugar-crusted gaiety that people needed to break up winter’s bleakness. The sons of the House could not have chosen a better hunting ground for their scheme.

The Yule festivities in Imladris were always a high point; precisely the sort of firelit, snow-dusted, sugar-crusted gaiety that people needed to break up winter’s bleakness. 

The sons of the House could not have chosen a better hunting ground for their scheme. All the guests of the Valley mingled in close quarters, most of them merry; and of those who weren’t, most were lonely away from home and only wanted for a little comfort and company. As it happened, they barely had to try.

The Sinda’s name was Saindir—a friend of Gildor’s, visiting for the winter. He was a bit younger than the twins, and had soft brown eyes and the sort of fresh-faced beauty that made him look younger still. He’d caught their interest at nearly the same time, drifting dreamily between the fires with snow caught in his golden-brown hair. Elladan had given Elrohir a meaningful, questioning look, and Elrohir had winked back; they’d split apart, made a few subtle inquiries about the new guest, and then reconvened to confirm a single shared certainty: _that’s the one_.

The first night, Elrohir plied him with candied nutmeg and hot drinks, and asked him about his home and his family, and brought to bear all the charm he had. When at last he bid Saindir goodnight, Saindir watched him go with undisguised admiration in his eyes—or at least, that was how Elladan recounted it when they spoke later in their rooms.

On the second night, Elladan arranged to be seated beside Saindir at the feasting-table, Elrohir eavesdropping from a few places down. Normally they would have been at the head table with their father, but things were less formal at Yule. Elrohir had pointed Elladan out the night before as his brother; at supper he introduced himself properly, and from Elrohir’s perspective they got on like a house on fire.

At one point in the evening, deep into telling some story, Saindir had laid a hand on Elladan’s arm. But when Elladan drew back, he smiled and apologized, and went right on with his story as if nothing at all strange had happened. He was just as warm as before, but did not touch Elladan again. When Elrohir caught his eye later, they shared a hopeful grin.

 _Yes,_ they said again, between themselves. _That’s the one_.

Elrohir rejoined them when it had grown late, and many of the older residents and guests were beginning to retire. They had settled themselves into a corner with a comfortable chaise and a carafe of wine, and seemed to be lazily debating the merits of different hunting styles when he approached. Elrohir, smiling, had tucked himself in the very small amount of space left on the chaise beside Saindir, letting their thighs press together and his arm drop across Saindir’s shoulders. When Saindir turned to offer him a drink from his own goblet, the brothers had shared a look of pleased triumph.

~

On the third night, there was a masqued ball.

They had started with matched costumes, deep blue velvet with embroidered silver snowflakes and masks of silver ice. But Elladan had been up to mischief in the week before, swapping ensembles with no fewer than three people; whose costume he wore now was anyone’s guess. It made him look like a golden hawk, the hood sweeping down to the beaked mask, the mantle and sleeves suggesting feathers with their shape and ornamentation.

Elrohir could have picked him out blindfolded, of course, but it seemed unlikely anyone else would know him, especially with his hair covered.

Elrohir was easy enough to identify by hair and build and height, and Saindir found him early in the evening. Saindir himself had clearly not known to prepare for the ball; his robes were fine but no more than one would wear for any nice occasion, and his mask was a simple painted domino. Elrohir pretended confusion anyway, stalking in a circle around him like a pacing tiger.

“Well, hello. Who's this handsome stranger?”

Saindir ducked his head a little, smiling at the floor. “Nothing to compare with a Prince of Winter, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, but it does get cold in my realm, and you look very warm indeed.” Elrohir offered a hand, and Saindir placed his own lightly into it. “Won't you spare me a dance, warm stranger?”

Saindir's blush showed even beneath the mask, and his smile was soft and pleased as they took the floor to join the dance. There was a rising tide of excitement Elrohir could not suppress. They would make their move tonight; and there was every indication that Saindir would be very amenable indeed to the invitation.

When the dance ended, Saindir gave a shy, playful bow and said, “I hope you will save another for me later?”

“Of course. As many as you like.” Elrohir kissed his hand, trying not to be _too_ terribly smug.

Saindir beamed. Then he glanced around the hall and back to Elrohir, tilting his head curiously. “I haven't seen your brother yet, I don't think. Is he here tonight? I am guessing he does not dance, but I should like to continue our conversation if he is willing.”

“He is...” Elrohir grinned even as Elladan passed behind them, bare inches away, and waved a hand vaguely. “Around. Waiting to be found, I imagine.” And then, with a wink— “You never know, there might be a prize for locating him.”

Saindir flushed right to the tips of his ears, but he smiled back. “I suppose I'd best start looking, then.”

“Good hunting,” Elladan murmured, smiling, as he took his leave.

“No wonder he’s flustered. You do look very fine.” Elladan stood at his shoulder; they watched Saindir weave through the crowd with equally covetous smiles.

“I would tell you the same, and you do, but—in truth you look very unlike yourself tonight. I’m not sure I like it.” He could never mistake Elladan, but there was something unsettling about it. He’d even done something subtle with his voice, pitching it softer and a little lower, that might have been pleasing if it did not make something so very familiar into something slightly strange. Elrohir glanced over at him and visibly startled back. “Are you—are you _taller_ than me?”

He hadn’t noticed before, when they had not been standing so close, but it was undeniable now. Elladan laughed, delighted at his reaction. “Heeled boots. Clever disguise, don’t you think?”

Elrohir scowled at him, but there was no real sting in it. “I don’t see why you have to go towering over everyone.”

Elladan elbowed him. “Are you jealous? You can wear them next time.” Then, more seriously, “Does it truly bother you?”

Elrohir softened a little, giving him a rueful smile. “It’s just odd. I feel as if my brother’s been replaced by a changeling, ever-so-slightly wrong in the particulars.”

They still stood side-by-side, Elladan slightly behind, looking out over the room. Without turning towards him, Elladan lifted a hand to the back of Elrohir’s neck, letting two fingers rest against the small line of skin exposed between the edge of his collar and the upsweep of his gem-braided hair. _I am still me._

Such a small touch, such simple words; why then was it suddenly so difficult for Elrohir to breathe? He could not shiver, not in front of all these people, not in their father’s ballroom— _Careful!_ , he tried to say, but it might have been _please_ instead.

 _We don't have to be_. Elladan dragged his fingertips along the edge of Elrohir's hairline, and Elrohir gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath between them, trying desperately not to move. _Not for very much longer._

 _Do you mean to kill me?_ he asked, smiling weakly at his brother.

Elladan’s grin was breathtaking, even behind the mask. _Maybe only wound you a little._ He started to step away. “I'll give you some space.”

Before he could think about it too much, Elrohir caught his wrist. “Dance with me.”

Elladan hesitated.

 _No one will recognize you, will they?_ “Come on, dance with me.”

“Well,” Elladan said, with slow, dawning delight, “if you're sure you won't mind me towering over you.”

Elrohir tried not to think of Elladan over him in a different context, failed, very briefly considered a stroll outside in the snow in lieu of dancing. But—no, he could master himself, he’d done it a thousand times before. And besides, when might they have the opportunity again?

It was not so very shocking, their dancing. Proper enough for the sternest chaperone; even when Elladan stumbled a little—unused to following, and wearing those precarious boots—Elrohir only caught him by the elbow and righted him gently. Still, it felt audacious and transcendant to Elrohir, that they might dance before the whole of Imladris without having to make a joke to explain it away, that they could behave as any other laughing couple on the floor. Elrohir thought of this, and the thousand other small things he wanted, and—

Maybe they could have them. Maybe there was a way; the line could be a backdrop, not a wall.

It ended too soon, of course. Elrohir reflected ruefully that no song ever written was long enough for a first dance. They could have had another, but it wouldn’t do to draw too much attention; Elrohir would rather be interrogated about Saindir than about the tall mysterious stranger, and the best way to ensure that was to spend more time in the company of the former.

Elladan squeezed his hand before they parted ways, smiling down at him. Elrohir, warmed through, drifted off to mingle more. He felt as if he’d been draining more than his fair share of the punch all night, light and giddy, though he tried not to let it show.

There were plenty of friends and acquaintances to greet, plenty of inquiries about Elladan’s costume to playfully dodge. It took Elrohir some time to realize that Saindir was not simply lost in the crowd, but conspicuously absent. Gildor had been with him early in the evening, and was certain he was around somewhere; no one else had seen him any time recently, and someone suggested he might even have retired early. Elrohir found himself a little put out.

He had almost given up when he caught a flash of green outside one of the windows. He stepped out onto the wide balcony and found Saindir sitting alone on a stone bench, his back to the hall. His mask was off, clutched distractedly in one hand, and even a full-elf had to be chilled wearing nothing but dress robes in this weather.

When Elrohir approached, he glanced up, then visibly recoiled a little.

“What's—are you all right?” Elrohir made as if to sit beside him, and Saindir leapt to his feet, taking a step back.

“Don't pretend, please,” he said quietly, looking distressed. “I may have been an easy mark, but I'm not blind.”

Elrohir shook his head. “Saindir, I don't—”

“Is your brother even here tonight? I suppose it was very amusing to watch me chasing the match to your costume all night, knowing I'd make a fool of myself when I caught up to him thinking it was Elladan.”

“What? No! That isn't—”

“Do you think I couldn't see you and your lover laughing at me?” 

“What?” Elrohir said again. “I don't have a lover—”

Saindir's voice grew even quieter. “The bird of prey. Did you think I couldn't see the way you danced with him? It's clear you're spoken for. You didn't need to lead me on.”

“He's not my lover! He's—” Elrohir ran right up to the edge of that confession and skidded to a halt. _We weren't inappropriate,_ he told himself, but another part of him said: _even so, you don't dance that way with a brother._

_We meant to bed him together! Is it so different?_

It wasn't. He realized, with sudden awful clarity, that it would never have worked, not truly. How could they keep their secret, when they were already so far beyond what normal brothers would do together? And how could they be so cruel as to bring someone else into their mess, knowing full well that anyone between them would only ever be a proxy for each other? It wasn't right, it wasn't safe for their secret, and it was _certainly_ less than Saindir or anyone else deserved.

There was no way to put any of that to words, though, and the awkward silence stretched almost to breaking. At last, Elrohir ventured, “I wasn't trying to mock you. I really do—”

But Saindir wasn't looking at him anymore. His attention was on something behind Elrohir. “And here he is to collect you. Good riddance.” And with that he strode away, back towards the House.

Elrohir turned to see what Saindir had: Elladan, hovering uncertainly in the doorway. _What happened?_

Elrohir was too frustrated with himself—and with Elladan too, if he were being honest—to rehash everything. Instead he simply opened his mind and let a disjointed flood of information flow across to Elladan: the conversation, his conclusions, his regrets.

Elladan let it happen, silently sorting through until he could make some sense of the pieces.

“We can’t do this. Any of it,” Elrohir said aloud, once he seemed to be up to speed. “I don’t know how we can even—” He looked for words, and then abruptly gave up, gesturing helplessly.

Elladan was silent, uncharacteristically thoughtful. After a long pause, he tilted his head, gazing at Elrohir as if to read even deeper than he’d already seen. “We did make a mess of it,” he acknowledged at last. “I didn’t think through all the implications of being seen together in costume. But we didn’t do anything improper. I can find Saindir and explain. It might not be enough, but at least we will have apologized. And we can try again another time—”

“At the expense of someone else? It won’t be honest, or fair to anyone we choose. I’ll never want them the way I—” Elrohir stopped short, shaking his head. “It won’t work. Surely you understand that.”

Elladan kept looking at him in that strange, searching way, made stranger by how he looked tonight. He didn’t leap to agree—or to argue—like he usually would have. Elrohir desperately wanted him to admit defeat, to acknowledge the reality of the situation, if only so Elrohir no longer had to be the only one facing down the shattering of all their hopes. But Elladan said nothing.

Elrohir couldn’t stand the silence. He took a step towards the doors, then retreated, indecisive. “I can’t go back in. I can’t bear to have everyone looking at me just now.” He needed space to process, somewhere there weren’t a thousand eyes on him; he cast about for a moment before hitting on the best option. “I’m going down to the baths.” They would be empty or nearly so, with everyone either at the ball or already having retired. And if the cleansing he needed was more symbolic than literal, it still wouldn’t hurt his spirit to do a little of the latter.

Elladan accepted that, or seemed to, asking only, “What do you want of me?”

It wasn’t just the eyes of the party-goers Elrohir needed space from. “You can stay, if you like. Or go to bed.” He wasn’t angry with Elladan, not really, so he bit back the unnecessary _don’t follow me_ when it welled up vengefully on his tongue _._

Elladan nodded, but he stepped closer; Elrohir watched him, wearily and warily, but let him approach. He lifted a hand and tugged loose the tie of Elrohir’s mask, catching it as it fell, then laid the hand lightly against the back of Elrohir’s head and bent to touch their foreheads together.

Elrohir closed his eyes, and held himself together with every shred of will he had left.

Then Elladan let him go. He reclaimed his mask without putting it on, and they parted ways.


End file.
